


thrown

by genee



Series: chicago [2]
Category: Actor RPF, Black Donnellys
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-14
Updated: 2009-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-19 19:51:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Chris thinks Tommy looks like he's been coming up swinging his whole life, all bone and muscle and buried secrets, scars crisscrossing through the freckles Chris didn't mean to see. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	thrown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meredevachon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meredevachon/gifts).



> prompt: christian kane/tommy donnelly, whiskey.

The kid's name is Tommy, so Chris got that right, at least. He's not much of a kid, though, and Chris sees that first thing, dirty light falling like shadows across the sheets, Tommy sleeping still, shirtless, curled up in the space where Chris used to be. He looks like he's been coming up swinging his whole life, all bone and muscle and buried secrets, scars crisscrossing through the freckles Chris didn't mean to see.

Tommy's lips quirk then, quick, sharp, and he blinks awake, not nearly as surprised as Chris was when he woke up, half dressed still, fingers tucked into Tommy's jeans and Tommy's dick curved right into them. Chris licks his lips and Tommy clears his throat, runs the back of his hand across his mouth. "You gonna be in Chicago long?" he asks, and Chris shakes his head, thinks maybe he shouldn't have been sitting here like this, watching this kid sleep.

"About a week. Work," he says, scratching at his stubble. He vaguely remembers wandering back here last night, booze-soaked and freezing, Tommy's calloused hands on his skin. The apartment doesn't say much about him, likes art, lives alone, half a narrow floor in an old brick building, a warehouse, maybe, not-so-recently restored. There was cheap shampoo in the shower, clean towels stacked in neat squares on the sink. He didn't look in the refrigerator, but he'd put money on whatever's left of a six pack and maybe some OJ, milk carton almost past its date. "What about you? You live here?"

"New York, mostly," Tommy says, and then, "It's complicated." Chris sees those shadows again, dark like guilt and gone again, anger boiling low. Chris thinks nothing's ever easy, Jensen in Vancouver, a blowjob in some shitty Chicago bar, Tommy leaning up on his elbows, faded bruises on his ribs and pale nipples pulled tight. "I own this building now, so," half a smile, a shrug, a scar that runs along his bicep smooth and pink. "I stay here when I'm in town."

Chris tells himself he's not gonna fuck this kid who tastes like copper and isn't at all what he seems, bulge in his sleep-twisted jeans and his nails bitten down to the quick. The kid said so himself, it's complicated, and Chris doesn't need more complications in his life. He needs to get back to the hotel is what he needs, but he waits while Tommy pads barefoot down the hallway and brushes his teeth, takes a leak. There's a .38 on the kitchen counter, Tommy's wallet, keys. Chris's coat is draped over the back of a big old chair by the windows and his boots are by the door, but when Tommy comes back, his face washed and his jeans still unbuttoned, Chris really doesn't want to leave.

"You ever feel like you're being pulled in different directions?" Tommy asks, and Chris runs his thumb across the scar on Tommy's chin, big eyes gone gray and Chris's hand along his jaw. Chris wasn't planning on ever doing tv again, shouldn't even be in this city, shouldn't be anywhere but on stage somewhere, promoting the shit out of a record he tore his life apart to make. Tommy looks away for a second and Chris kisses him hard just to bring him back, to hear the sounds they make, dicks lined up, Tommy's hands on his ass, possessive.

Chris thinks he's gonna fuck this kid after all, sweet and slow, with his scars and his freckles and his drawings on the walls. He's gonna fuck this kid, screw up his thing with Jensen like he always does, give Steve one more reason not to talk to him anymore. Tommy moans, bites Chris's lip and soothes the mark with the tip of his tongue, leans back enough to meet Chris's eyes.

"We don't get out of here in the next five minutes," Tommy says, his voice all scratched to hell, hot and dirty, "and I'm gonna bend you over that chair and fuck you until you forget all about whoever's got you so turned around, take the rest of your clothes off when I'm done and spread you out on the bed, eat you out 'til you beg me to fuck you again."

Chris's hips buck into Tommy's without his permission and Tommy kisses him, softer now, lets Chris be the one to step away. "I gotta work, man. I, fuck," Chris laughs, swallows the rest of that sentence, scrubs his fingers through his hair. He can't remember the last time he was so fuckin' _thrown_. "Fuck."

The kid just grins, though, pulls on a shirt and buttons another one over it, picks up his things from the counter. He says something about a gallery opening and Chris nods, thinks it's been a long goddamn time since he's put his on boots with a hard on still. This kid, fuck. He reaches for their coats.

"C'mon," Tommy says, tucks the .38 tucked into his jeans. Chris knows he'll wind up back here tonight, wired, amped up from filming and half drunk on whiskey and this kid's mouth, begging for it with his ass in the air, come already splattered on the sheets. Tommy's hand is on the doorknob, ready, and he knows Tommy knows it, too. Chris clears his throat and Tommy says, "Let me buy you breakfast, at least. There's a deli right around the corner, best egg sandwich you ever had."

  

~ . . . ~


End file.
